by Julie Thomas
And yet the faith he pretended to follow told him that all men were redeemable and it was his duty to forgive the sins of his fellow man as G-d forgave him. He had no idea what the numbers of dead would be, but something chilling in the pit of his stomach told him it would be in the millions.
He remembered the conversations, or the rantings, of Hitler. The plans for retreat that the Führer had railed against. Levi had carefully noted all of that and sent it back to his handlers when he’d returned to Berlin from the Berghof.
Where would the ordinary people go? How would they find their families and friends again? Where would they live if their homes and livelihoods had been destroyed?
The practice of the Christian religion was second nature to him now. He knew all the Saints’ days and the prayer he repeated as he counted the rosary beads. He felt the bread and wine on his tongue, a wafer and red wine, which was, to those of his assumed faith, the real body and blood of Jesus. He’d read the Gospels and recognised much of it as the beliefs of his ancestors. He liked this man, Jesus, a Jew, who had opened his heart and his mind to the weak, the sinful, and the outcasts. That kind of social conscience sat well with Levi. But could he accept Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of G-d his people had waited so long for? Jesus hadn’t delivered the Jews from Roman servitude, and now his G-d was not delivering the Jews from the oppression of the Nazis. And yet, it was wrong to say he wasn’t, because he was. There were rescued Jews all around Levi, and he didn’t doubt that others were doing the same elsewhere. Was this the work of G-d?
So what would he be left with? After all his different disguises, who was he, a Jew who’d posed as a Lutheran and then a Catholic? What did he believe in? The Old Testament G-d of his heritage, a judging but loyal G-d, or the compassionate father of the New Testament, who taught him to love and forgive his fellow man? Who was he supposed to forgive? Hitler? The patrol solider who shot Erik? The officer who now lived in his house? The people who had tortured Erik in Dachau and left him a broken husk? How was he supposed to do that? The questions rolled around in his head as he cycled through the summer fields. Perhaps all he could pray for was clarity.
On the morning of 15 May he was leaving church with Father Don Aldo when they were stopped at the Don’s front door by the local police.
‘Father Don Aldo Brunacci?’ the officer asked.
Don Aldo smiled and shook his head. ‘You know who I am, Otto. What do you want?’
The officer looked uncomfortable. ‘We have orders to arrest you, Father. You are to come with us,’ he said avoiding the priest’s eyes.
‘Why? What have I done?’ Don Aldo asked.
‘I can’t answer that. We just have orders to collect you and take you to the station in Perugia.’
Don Aldo threw a quick glance at Levi. There was a Jewish university professor and his wife sleeping in the study. They hadn’t felt safe in the church where they’d been put, and had asked to stay with Don Aldo until their papers came through. If the police searched the house they would be found, arrested and deported to a concentration camp. The door was open, but Don Aldo pulled it shut.
‘I will come as I am, I have nothing to gather from inside. Father Erik, would you be so kind as to let the bishop know,’ he said.
Levi swallowed hard to get his jangling nerves under control. If Don Aldo could be calm, then so could he. ‘Of course, Father. God be with you,’ he said.
As soon as he could, Levi biked over to the bishop’s palace. When darkness fell they transferred the family there. The bishop was as gracious and welcoming as always, although every room in the palace was full of refugees awaiting papers.
‘I will sleep in my study and you may have my bedroom,’ he told them.
Word reached them that Don Aldo had been sent to a concentration camp in central Italy. The bishop appealed to the Archbishop of Perugia to intercede on his behalf. It wasn’t the Germans who wanted Don Aldo incarcerated, it was the neo-fascists. By the time the Archbishop’s plea reached the commander of the guard in the camp, Don Aldo had escaped and made his way to Rome. His absence was felt deeply in Assisi; Levi did his best to reassure the families, but they had come to rely so heavily on Don Aldo and there were frightening times ahead.
‘I want to tell you what I’ve done,’ Valentin Müller said as he sat at his desk. Across from him the bishop and Father Erik watched him impassively.
‘I have sent a letter to General FieldMarshall Kesselring. He’s the commander of the Mediterranean theatre and therefore responsible for all of Italy. I’ve officially requested that Assisi be declared a hospital city. This means the Allies will be notified and it will not be bombed.’
The bishop nodded thoughtfully and steepled his fingers.
‘That is a worthy action, Valentin. We all, obviously, approve, and God will be well pleased. So much history, so much of St Francis and St Clare is in these precious buildings, and once they’re gone the heart of the Church in this area goes with them.’
‘The US Fifth Army and the British Eighth Army are making progress, and it seems inevitable that they will liberate Assisi in the days ahead. The German SS is on the retreat from Rome and looking to destroy as much as they can,’ Müller said. ‘It is my aim to make the conflict here as bloodless as possible. I have substantial medical supplies, over ten million lira’s worth, which I will leave behind for the treatment of the injured and the sick.’
‘What can we do about the SS?’ the bishop asked. ‘If they enter the city the Allies will bomb it.’
Müller frowned. ‘I’ve set up a twenty-four hour guard around the perimeter of the city gate. Any SS officer who tries to pass through, they will be repelled, by lethal force if necessary.’
A week later Colonel Müller asked to meet with them again. He was troubled, pacing the room briskly when Levi entered.
‘Morning, Your Grace,’ Levi said.
‘Morning, Father Erik.’
The bishop sat and gazed at the German officer who turned and smiled at Levi.
‘Ah, Father Erik, good morning,’ Müller extended his hand.
‘Good morning. What is it, Il Colonelo? You look distressed,’ Levi asked.
Yet again it struck him how fond he had become of this man, how different Müller was from almost all the German officers he had met.
‘I’ve haven’t heard from Berlin, so I’ve decided to take my own action. It’s too important to leave it to chance. I want you both to bear witness to the fact that I have drafted a letter, in German, declaring Assisi a hospital city, an open city, not to be bombed, and I have signed it with Kesselring’s signature. If it is uncovered as a forgery and falls into the wrong hands it will be considered an act of treason and I shall be shot. Are we clear?’
There was silence as all three digested the implications.
‘Yes, Il Colonelo,’ the bishop said quietly. ‘God be with you as you do His work first and foremost.’
‘Good. I suggest you round up all your “special guests”, the ones I am not supposed to know about, and be ready to hand their details over to the Allied troops.’
Without Don Aldo, Levi’s days were frantically busy. He visited all the families, those who had been there for months and those who had just arrived, and prepared them for the chaos after the liberation. He was still picking up blank ID cards and taking them to Luigi to be printed. The danger for the families would come not only from the retreating SS officers, but from the neo-fascists who would try to fill any power void.
A night of intense fighting took place on 16 June. SS Officers set fire to grain silos and barns and blew up bridges outside of Assisi. Rapid gunfire in the hills could be heard for miles, and the smell of cordite hung over the city. As tall pillars of flame licked at the night sky, terrified citizens joined with the bishop, Father Erik and the other clergy to pray the rosary at the Tomb of St Francis. No one knew what would happen in the hours ahead. As he knelt on the cold stone floor, Levi prayed with all his heart.
‘If
these are to be our last few hours, at least we will die knowing that God’s grace and His forgiveness shelters us,’ the bishop said, his melodic voice bringing a sense of calm and resolve.
After midnight Levi rode his bicycle to the St Francis city gate and watched the Germans leave by car and on foot. The bishop was already there. Müller leapt from his car and stood on the wall overlooking his departing troops. He cocked his pistol and trained it on the Germans.
‘If anyone attempts to harm a civilian, or loot anything from this beautiful city, he will be shot!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘We leave in peace.’
‘We may find we miss that man,’ the bishop muttered to Levi, ‘he is truly a man of God.’
The next morning Levi was woken by thunderous banging on the front door. Two neo-fascist fighters stood on the step, rifles over their backs and wooden truncheons in their hands.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said cautiously.
‘The Germans are gone and we’re in charge now!’ one of them barked out.
‘By whose authority?’ Levi asked.
The man went to swing his truncheon, but his companion stopped him.
‘We can’t have no law and order, so we have filled the gap. If you don’t submit to our authority you will be tortured and imprisoned.’
‘And how, exactly, are we supposed to submit to your authority?’
The more violent of the two raised his weapon but didn’t point it at Levi.
‘We’ll have no more lip from you, Father. This town belongs to us and we’ll run it as we see fit. Twelve o’clock in the town square. We want everyone who can come to be there. And make sure the bishop is there, too.’
Before he could react, they strode off. He was certain that the Americans would arrive within hours. The important thing was to make sure nothing happened to the families in hiding before liberation came. He shut the front door behind him and jumped on his bicycle. There were people everywhere, not knowing what to do. Several of them stopped him and asked for his advice.
‘Go home, close your doors and wait,’ he said. ‘This next chapter won’t last long, but we don’t want anyone hurt.’
The bishop was in his study. He appeared relieved to see Levi.
‘Come in, Father. I have been praying for our town and the families we have in hiding.’
‘Do we go to the town square, Your Grace?’ Levi asked.
The bishop nodded. ‘Yes, I think it would be wise to avoid confrontation for the moment. The Americans should be here soon.’
So they went, along with hundreds of others. The neo-fascist soldiers fired bullets into the air and were about to read out their requirements when the first American tanks rumbled through the St Clare gate. At first it looked as if the neo-fascists would stand and fight, but the superior American fire power was obvious within minutes and they fled through the back alleys and into the hills. As news spread, more and more people poured out onto the streets to shake the hands of their liberators, while music played in the cafés.
‘So what are you going to do?’ the American asked. The question was addressed to Levi, who sat beside the bishop and across from the commander at Colonel Müller’s old desk.
‘Some of our families want to go south, to Rome,’ Levi answered.
‘The church will find safe places for them until the war in northern Europe is over and they can go home. Some come from Italy, but many are from Poland, France, Hungry, Belorussia and Germany. It won’t be safe for them to return north for months, maybe years,’ said the bishop.
‘How many have you hidden?’ the American asked.
The bishop shrugged. ‘It has always been too dangerous to keep records, but at least three hundred souls,’ he said.
The American nodded and looked at Levi. ‘And you want to go with them?’ asked the American. ‘To Rome?’
‘Yes, I want to see Don Aldo. Then I’ll go north, back to the partisans. They’re fighting with the British, liberating town by town.’
The American frowned. ‘You could hand yourself over to our high command in Rome, they would organise for you to go to England by ship. Germany will be too dangerous for you for a long time.’
Levi shook his head. ‘Not yet. My war is not over. If I could I would join the liberating army and march all the way to Berlin, but I’m not a soldier. I have my reasons for wanting to go back to Trento.’
‘Very well. When you’re ready to go north, ask for safe conduct as far as the army can take you.’
Two days later Levi said goodbye to the bishop, Luigi, Monica and all the people who had sheltered him and allowed him to help others. It was a hard farewell and he blinked back tears.
‘God will go with you, my son; He knows the good you have done here. We will miss you,’ the bishop said as he used his thumb to make the sign of the cross on Levi’s forehead. ‘I know you don’t believe in this, but your G-d is my God and He will keep you safe.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace, I shall never forget you,’ Levi replied. Then he climbed aboard the nearest army truck. His bicycle was strapped to the rear of the vehicle. There were children and adults in his truck, and one little boy went to sleep leaning against Father Erik’s side, encircled by an arm. The going was slow as the drivers had to be on the lookout for buried German bombs. When they came to what looked like a minefield, the trucks stopped and specialist soldiers picked their way over the rubble strewn roads and detonated the explosives.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rome
June 1944
Rome had been bombed from the air. As the truck rolled through the suburbs and into the central core it became obvious that sections of the city lay in ruins. Jagged walls stood stark against the darkening sky, whole apartment buildings with their fronts or sides blown off, and children in rags played among piles of bricks and chunks of concrete. When they flagged down the vehicles the soldiers broke open their rations, but most of all the children wanted to clamber up and shake their hands. Scores of people, some carrying American flags, stopped any military convoy to exchange smiles, waves and words of gratitude.
Don Aldo was in the relief office at the Vatican. He embraced Levi in a giant bear hug.
‘I’m so grateful to see you alive, Father Erik, and to know our people are safe,’ he said.
‘I am equally overjoyed to see you, Father. We prayed unceasingly for you, and when we heard you’d escaped there was much amusement. It was such a typical Don Aldo outcome.’
The large man laughed heartily. ‘It’s a good story, I’ll grant you that. When we have time I’ll tell you all about it.’
Then he led Levi to a window. ‘Look at the people,’ he said. ‘Day after day, still it goes on.’
Hundreds of people were dancing, laughing, drinking, and exchanging hugs and kisses. ‘This is what freedom from oppression looks like. May we never forget it,’ Don Aldo said.
Having said his goodbyes to Don Aldo, it was time to head north again. Levi continued to wear his habit, but he carried his old clothes in his duffle bag. When the American Jeep dropped him behind the front-line, he exchanged farewells with his liberators and biked off down the road. A priest on a bicycle was a common sight in Italy, and if he was stopped he had papers to prove he was Father Erik Bartolli.
Once again he moved mainly by night, sleeping by day. The sound of gunfire was ever present, and he occasionally heard planes overhead and the reverberation of bombs exploding. When he ventured out during daylight hours he was passed by exhausted women and old men, some on foot and some riding donkeys, the women often with bundles balanced on their heads, slowly making their way south to reclaim their devastated homes.
He chose farmhouses out in the countryside, and watched them to make sure there were no Germans in the area. When he knocked on the door and told the inhabitants he was making his way north to fight with the partisans, they gave him a hot meal and a place to rest in the barn. Only once did he hear the rumble of German tanks down the road ahead. Gatherin
g his possessions, he fled into the nearby forest.
Partisan camp, September 1944
Eventually Levi came to the outskirts of Trento, not far from the camp. He changed out of the habit and buried it, his belt, papers, sandals and the bicycle in a ditch. His first stop was the gravesite beside the stream in the top reaches of the forest line. The cross made from two wooden sticks was still there, barely discernible in the grass and leaves. He cleared the area around it and sat down beside the grave.
‘I’m back, my love,’ he said softly. ‘I told you I would come back and I have kept my promise. Remember how we talked about the end of the war? Whether the Americans and the British would come? Well, they’re here, my love. And they’re going to win. One day our Germany will be free again, and I’ll make sure your parents know what happened and where you are.’
He stopped and looked around him. It was a quiet place, just the sound of birdsong and of the stream running over the rocks.
‘This is a lovely place to be. I know you like it here. It reminds me of the meadows around your house.’
Swamped by the memory of a tentative kiss, he gave a loud sigh. It was the first time he’d been alone with Erik, no one watching, no one there to judge. For a moment he felt as if something was going to rise from a long shut-off compartment in his gut. A keen, a moan, a sob of grief, something that yearned to see the light of day. He sensed an almost tsunami-like wall of black rage and anguish starting to gather momentum. But it was not the place nor the time, so he slammed the door shut.
‘I’d better go and see if I can find the camp. Maybe it’s gone, who knows? Goodbye, sweet friend.’
He hauled himself to his feet and walked away without a backward glance. Just inside the forest he let out a long low whistle and waited.
